


slut

by bloodrunsred



Series: just a little bit broken [10]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Bad Decisions, Cheating, Child Abuse, Depressed Morty Smith, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Erasing Gun, Partner Betrayal, Psychological Trauma, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Rick Being an Asshole, Sad Ending, Sad Morty Smith, Schizophrenia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-01-06 04:50:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18381314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: Rick's always been a slut.Morty shouldn't let it bother him.





	1. morty

**Author's Note:**

> TENTH WORK IN THIS SERIES!!! 
> 
> ahhhh thanks so much for your support guys - I hope this fic makes you cry and I hope you love every moment of it. i adore each and every one of you, for reading and commenting and leaving kudos that only inspires me to create more of this world. 
> 
> ALSO IMPORTANT: find me on tumblr!! @xbloodrunsredx
> 
>  
> 
> warning: this might be a little jumpy. my thinking has been rather erratic lately, and it's extended to my writing, where i'll use the wrong words, mix up time, split up words that don't need it, etc. if you notice me doing this, please drop a comment to let me know how to fix it! and, without further ado, happy reading!!

Rick seems a bit more excited than normal.

 _Normally_ , when Morty sees him excited like this, it's accompanied by the twitch of a finger and a curve of his mouth, a sprinkling of  _taboo_ highlighting his every step. Now, Rick is leaving - Morty is coming too, of course, because where would Rick be without his shield? Dead, that's where - but he just seems smug, the cat that ate the canary and its whole family.

If it were like other times, where Rick wanted to get away to a cheap motel where the sheets smelt and tasted of cigarettes, Morty would have known earlier. Whenever Rick plans something like that, there's always gentle prodding, Rick pushing the concept onto him so Morty never has an excuse to say,  _"I didn't know!"_ or complain. Rick isn't fond of those moments, where Morty's brain escapes him and he says something terrible and  _senseless._

Morty's curious. Of course he is. It seems more like how adventures were before, like when Rick met Unity again, and Morty thinks that they can be good again. It's so easy to forget, when there's no marks on his body to remember and no innuendo on Rick's tongue.

It's like when Rick first came.

So, he does everything Rick says. He gathers everything Rick tells him to, and tries not to wonder too hard about why he wants him to bring a book or,  _"Some shit to - to occupy your little M-morty thoughts, I don't care-"_

It seems fun and easy and just a little break from the stifling  _normality_ that plagues him with every breath he takes, and every sip his Mom has from her bottle or Rick from his flask. They're taking the ship and Morty is content enough to be left alone. Stranded in the abyss, with a comic to keep him connected to Earth in one small way. The stars in space are so large, and bright, and never fail to remind him how small he truly is. It's comforting, knowing that nothing matters, that he doesn't have to care, or think, or love. He only has to exist, and that's good enough for the universe. 

Maybe they'll get ice-cream, he thinks, or maybe they'll just drift along and along, with nothing but glass keeping them from a cold, lonely death.

No. Rick's too busy for that, he's not the kind of person that respects or admires much of anyone or anything. Rick has a lot of masks, and Morty is only one of his shields, but that's never been something worth hiding from him. 

"Morty, get your pussy ass over here!" Rick is shouting and Morty's thrown into the past, clutching his phone and a few random books close to his heart as the only thing keeping him in the present. It seems like so long ago, that they weren't complicated. Or, as complicated as they are now. It's nice to forget, he thinks, nice to push it aside and relish in whatever false reality he can create.

But, it's familiar in a way that isn't a distant memory. He pauses, face screwing up as he thinks, throwing the past aside in favour of satiating the beast that hungered for knowledge, for closure. He chases memories as they disappear like smoke, fleeting shadows of an idea rather than a whole memory.

Rick rolls his eyes, shoulders relaxed despite his tone. He throws his own belongings in the back of the ship, a small black bag that clinks together like needle against needle, bottle against bottle, and Morty _remembers_.

_-and the world was a sparkling blue, lines cut thin with credit cards, and bands tied around arms as needles were tAPPED SO LOUD, MY EARS HELP even with the music pounding loudly. Rick's eyes were so dark and it pinched, but nothing hurt more than hands on him, wandering and seeking as explosions unfolded behind closed lids, a party raging on with his mental absence-_

He remembers more as well. He thinks of dark, cold nights, and Rick promising to warm him up, he thinks of pain, he thinks of resignation, he thinks entirely of Rick. And he knows he can't let himself forget - he made his choice, made it long ago and it's too late for him now. It's too late to hold onto ignorance, too late to hold onto any lie he could have told himself otherwise. 

Morty allows Rick to push him into his seat (like he has a choice), still stuck in a dark room and shadowed corners, arms stinging with an invisible injury. He shrugs off the regret and fear easily, too easy in it's familiarity. He hopes it's not another party, another room full of dangerous strangers, and the monster -  _you can say his name, say it -_ who lives in his bed.

This is how they got to the last one, too; is that why Rick told him to bring something, so he wouldn't guess? So he would think they're leaving for something different? Maybe. Rick has gone further for less, lied for less. 

His best chance is stopping Rick before they get there. A light kiss against his cheek, a flutter of his lashes, and maybe Rick could be persuaded to brake in space and just  _take._ Maybe he'd still use the needles, the drugs, but he's not patient when he acts like he wants it. He's never patient. Not with Morty. So, Morty decides to wait. Doing anthing else can be a last resort.

Morty hopes he never ends up like Rick, never welcomes the feeling of his body lighter than air and his head spinning around and around, until up is down and down is up. It makes him sick, later, but Rick has a legendary tolerance that Morty has no hope of ever emulating. It's better that way. Rick was so much nicer to him, after...

After  _that._

At Rick's irritated look, he buckles himself in, the fraying seatbelt a welcome weight against his chest. Rick takes another pull from his flask, seatbelt tangled to his side, abandoned as always. They pull out of the garage, and Morty welcomes the coolness of space and the absence of Earth like he would an old friend.

 

* * *

 

The trip is long, and Morty allows it to stretch longer and longer, his head leaning on his arm against the window, fogged with his exhales. Rick doesn't talk, and Morty doesn't care. There's nothing to talk about, not here. Nothing to hate or fear or fight as the engine thrums.

It's so  _beautiful._

It's a painting, colour stark and bright where there might have only been darkness, purples and oranges dotted with a million stars that shine like rare jewels. It's so dark, and even with the company he feels alone - alone with his thoughts, alone in this place he's only ever before seen in a dream that feels like a million years away. And maybe there's a god, he thinks, that exists and bathes in this pool of nothing and everything, that lives and dies as the stars do and always will until the sun burns out and darkness reigns again. 

Rick's so lucky, he's so lucky, that they're both able to see this. A glance at Rick reveals that he doesn't feel the same, and Morty is disappointed that he can't see how amazing it is anymore. He hopes he never has to wear the same, disinterested scowl on his face that he sees all the time, because the implications are heartbreaking. Looking back on the view, on the constellations and nebulae, he wonders what it's like to look beauty in the face and see something plain.

He can't imagine. 

But Rick is Rick, and really only sees beauty in things that are fleeting.

There's a sudden heaviness to his heart, and the taste of iron on his tongue as he ponders:  

_What does that mean for him?_

 

* * *

 

Rick lands how he talks. Rough, messy, and almost definitely hindered by his crippling alcoholism. But Morty doesn't mind. In fact, it's almost a little thrilling when Rick cackles, like plummeting is the funniest thing in the world. It's just another adventure, another what if that could ruin his life or make him glad he didn't end up dying. He's happy that there's still some spark left in Rick yet, a fire that keeps him running through the dark and cold of space. 

He grabs the bags, shouldering them as Rick rambles, on and on. "I wouldn't - wouldn't have brought you, Morty, but these, uh,  _events,_ always tend to be held in Federation Space-"

He continues to talk, but Morty is more focused on the ground, on the red earth that crumbles underfoot, and small flowers that bloom between the cracks. It's not dark yet, in this place -  _Kirta-7,_ Rick had said in the ship - but he thinks the flowers might glow without the tiny sun shining down on them. He could get used to a place like this, he knows he could. It's a literal breath of fresh air, and he's tempted to sit down and run his fingers through the dirt and the winding plants. 

Rick is in a hurry, though, and there's no time to relax as he's tugged along. His legs can't match the pace Rick is setting, so he's forced to do a half-hearted jog that has his legs aching five minutes in.

Kirta-7 is small, and the amount they're walking feels too huge with that in mind.

It's not extremely small, not like the tiny planets they sometimes pass on their way to fetch supplies for another illegal war-crime scheme of Rick's, but it's definitely not as big as Earth. It's similar to the size of the moon, though Morty can't be sure if his memory is reliable enough to make the comparison. Either way, Morty can already feel the slow burn of exhaustion travelling through his body, from the sting of the bag's straps digging into shoulder blades to the heaving of his chest. 

The whole planet is coloured a muddy red, with a sky the colour of dying fire and dotted with pink clouds. The cool air dries up the saliva collecting in his mouth and he's forced to swallow nothing, audible enough that Rick shoots him an irritated glare. 

"Why couldn't we just park at the thing, Rick?" He finally asks. Rick looks at him again, even more annoyed. He uses his grip on Morty's arm to bring him to stand in front of him, back curved as he leaned over the teen. 

"Haven't you - I already told you,  _Morty,_ " Rick shakes Morty for emphasis, his face getting closer and closer even as Morty cringes away, "we're in Federation Space, you - you're an idiot, Morty. You need to learn to _listen_ , Morty."

Flecks of drool hit Morty's face and he squeezes his eyes shut until Rick scoffs, letting him go and walking even faster, still dragging him along for the ride. Just like the old times. This new world, this new planet, doesn't even matter anymore in wake of Rick's anger, but he's too nervous to ask to be reminded about what kind of event that Rick has them going to. 

He uses his right arm, swinging it up to cross over Rick's hand that has him in a death grip. He doesn't expect much to change; maybe a softening to the line of Rick's mouth, or a laxer grip, but he got nothing.

Nothing.

Rick is always too much. He's always too harsh, too fast, too nice, too mean, but he's never nothing at all. Morty lets his arm drop, his eyes falling to his scuffed shoes, the very image of complacency. He feels his eyes unfocus, his ability to see blinking away like the broken lightbulb in the garage. Words cloud his vision, instead:

_What have I done?_

Free Morty coupons flash, a bright yellow that makes him feel sick.

_Is he going to replace me?_

Morty had been in so much trouble recently - getting used to this new life is hard, but surely Rick wouldn't trade him in for a Morty that knew how to handle it better. Right?

_What's he planning?_

Rick sometimes messed with him for fun. He could strip Morty down to his bones with a few careless words just as easily as he could push him down a flight of stairs. Rick is nothing if not unpredictable in ways that make Morty think he tries to be. Rick - the base version of him, at least - can be easy to understand. Booze, drugs, power and attention is all he needs, and he always gets it (whether Morty's head is on the chopping block or not). The adventures are a way for him to get power, and attention. Sometimes drugs and booze as well.

He could be so simple if he just  _let Morty in._

Maybe Morty would be able to tell what makes him sick, in the way that leaves Morty uncomfortable and sticky, and unable to sleep at night. Maybe he'd finally work as a tool and finally be able to fix something, fix Rick, fix the mess that is his entire life. 

But Rick isn't simple. Not the way Morty wishes he was. If he were normal, bound by routine, and laws, and rules, and normality, he would have been long dead before Morty had ever met him. And, the spiteful part of Morty whispers as he trips again, maybe that would have been a good thing.

 

* * *

 

 

They finally arrive at Rick's destination, Morty flushed and sweaty while Rick looks unaffected, as always. It  _sounds_ like a party, and Morty is immediately wary. He looks up at Rick, chewing at his lip and cursing how, even at his fourteen years of age, Rick towers over him like a god.

 _"If there's a god, I'm him!"_ Morty shakes his head, two years of memories, falsified and repaired, stolen and restored, clamouring for his attention. He wonders, briefly, if Rick comparing himself to God constantly has had any effect on his mental health - or lack thereof. Maybe. He does tend to submit to Rick quickly, now, but that could be easily attributed to  _other things._

The house-thing (it's a house, but it's so big and cold, that it reminds him more of a gym, or mall), is intimidating. The porch is nice, shaded with chairs and enough space for twenty people to lounge comfortably. Rick tugs the bag from Morty's shoulder, throwing it onto a painted bench. Morty looks up, and his breath catches in his throat.

Rick's staring down at him like he does when he's calculated their odds of survival, and the numbers aren't good. Morty doesn't know why Rick has that look on his face - like he's finally seeing a bigger picture, and is conflicted. Morty doesn't know what he did, that has Rick staring, but the spell is broken as soon as he drops to stare at the top of his sneakers.

"Y-you're - you can stay out here, Morty," Rick says, stepping back. "Just take your shit out of - take your shit and give me my bag."

What?

"What?"

Rick sighs, pressing his head into his hands, looking uncharacteristically patient, especially considering his previous haste. Morty has a sinking feeling in his gut, like he should know what's going on.

"Look, Morty," Rick says, fishing for his flask, "y-you're a k- a teenager, and you probably have a lot of weird, hormonal, chemical reactions that your grandpa doesn't. And, because I  _respect_ that, I'm going to have you sit out here until I'm done."

Morty's about to open his mouth, about to demand an explanation, ask when Rick has ever respected anything at all, when the door swings open. A tall, purple-skinned alien lounges on the door frame, eyes trained on Rick's face like a lion would his food. Morty looks between the two, realisation dawning at the rather skimpy outfit adorning the alien's slender body. 

Oh.

"Oh." The two adults turn their heads to him, Rick looking resigned, and the purple alien squinting like he was little more than a bug under a microscope. His face apparently doesn't know whether to flush an unattractive fire-engine red or go deathly pale, and he feels his cheeks tingle as he gawks at them. He feels stupid - how many times has Rick acted the same way? How many times has he waited on someone's couch, or in Rick's ship for the very same reason?

Too many times, and he's ashamed he expected anything more from Rick. 

How  _is_ he supposed to act? What's he supposed to say? There are a million words bubbling on the tip of his tongue. He needs to say something, anything, but all he can do is swallow and choke on the questions and demands that struggle to be heard.

Rick raises an eyebrow at his silence, and the alien giggles, eyes glued to Morty's grandfather. There's bile rising in his throat - how could anyone be attracted to Rick? How can they know what he's done, who he is, and still let him in  _willingly?_ He doesn't want to think, doesn't want to even breathe, and he's left looking like an idiot becase of Rick, again. He knows why Rick looked so done before, what he was expecting.

And Morty doesn't want to give him the satisfaction.

He's not a betrayed spouse, and he has no reason to be shocked, or upset over this. Not one reason. 

He offers a smile, an obviously fake one that pulls his lips taut until he worries about them cracking. Rick gives him a once-over, but is quickly (too quickly) distracted by the alien, and allows himself to be tugged into the house, with what feels like a million other people all looking for their own pleasure. The door swings shut, and Morty is left all alone.

Like always.

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, the  _party_ is still in full swing, and Morty is on one of the benches that litter the area, head tucked into his knees. He's cold, and tired, and his mind is fluttering from though to thought, emotion to emotion, like a bee collecting as much honey as it can. 

There's no way to think without betraying himself, betraying everything he's ever wanted. There's no right answer and, not for the first time, he wishes Rick was with him to tell him what to think. Rick's always been good at that. Now, with the cold air biting at his cheeks and chapped lips, he needs to sort this mess out by himself. His first instinct is to blame himself; to run and beg for Rick's forgiveness, to get him to sort out the problem, but he doesn't think it'll work this time.

His second thought is to bury it. Deep, deep down, with the worst memories and the problems he can't bring himself to solve. But, the next time this happens - and there will be a next time, because Rick does what Rick wants - he'll be battling the same demons.

Maybe he can ask Rick to remove the memory - but, even as the thought crosses his mind, he remembers the desperation and confusion, the longing to be whole again. He's no-one without his memories, and it'll just happen again until RIck's little room is full of the same experience, over and over again because Morty is too weak to handle it. He doesn't own Rick.

And Rick's always been a slut. Morty shouldn't let it bother him. The wind whistles, the noise filling his ears like the whisper of a dark, dirty secret. 

Morty thinks of Doctor Wu. What she might say, if he were allowed to go back and see her.

_"Morty, I think you're trying to cover up a deep-rooted insecurity of never being good enough - and I'm assuming your grandfather's behaviour has you struggling to cope even more with that. Am I right?"_

Morty tries to banish the fake-therapist from his mind, and wishes he had inherited his mother's and Rick's disdain for therapy. It might make it easier to push it aside as an option, or make it seem more worthless than it actually is. All Morty knows is that the doctor saw something in all of them and, as much as anyone could try and deny it, she was good at her job.

_"Your words suggest that you don't often get positive attention; do you think that these actions on your grandfather's part make you feel invisible? Unnoticed? Not worth being seen?"_

"Shut up!" He pulls his head up, jaw clenched tight only to come face-to-face with nothing. No-one. Morty manages to choke out a laugh, harsh and bitter. He should be grateful it's not him. He should be grateful that it's someone else, someone who wants to, but all he feels is completely and terribly alone.

Rick doesn't do love. Rick does passion, and immoral, and stupid. He doesn't do feelings, or caring. Morty doesn't know why, but he thought Rick might have changed. He thought that Rick had wanted a steady relationship, had wanted to love Morty in the only way he knew how. And, just like usual, Morty was wrong and has to wallow in his own stupidity.

_"Am I correct in thinking that you base your own self-worth on how Rick views you? And you think that, since Rick is looking for sexual connections somewhere else, your own opinion on your body has changed as an extension?"_

"No," Morty clutches at his hair, scrunching his eyes shut like it'll hide him from himself, "please, no."

_"I imagine you've grown used to Rick treating you poorly, the only exception being the... physical aspect of your relationship. With your need for emotional connection, do you think it's possible you've sacrificed your own autonomy in exchange for said connection?"_

Morty doesn't muster a response. But he supposes that crying is answer enough.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Morty must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knows is that he's in the ship. Rick's beside him, uncharacteristically quiet as the engine thrums. Rick's coat is stained and his clothes are rumpled, and Morty tries not to look at him too closely.

"Hey, M-morty," Rick says. Morty wipes under his eyes and straightens his hair, trying to look like he  _hadn't_ spent half the time Rick was gone talking to a conjured image of his old therapist and crying over his feelings like a baby. "H-how are you doing, little buddy?" 

"Aw geez," Morty rubs at his eyes once more, "I'm just - I'm just tired, Rick. I haven't been sleeping great, recently - y-you know that." And Rick does know that. Rick knows intimately what exactly has been keeping Morty awake all night, Morty knows he knows. Hell, Morty's surprised that no-one else has figured it out. Rick's not subtle, and Morty's been tired  ~~so, so tired, please let me sleep, please~~ and hasn't been able to hide things as well as he might have been able to otherwise.

Everything's exhausting and Morty doesn't know what to do, so he waits for Rick.

Rick doesn't say much, for a while. He drives quietly, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Morty can understand that, at least. 

It takes long minutes before Rick's had enough to drink that talking comes easily again. There's the all-too familiar look in his eyes - past the dilated pupils, and manic blue that clouded where the whites of his eyes should be, there's the same look of resistance. The same reason he fights, and struggles, and lies, and is a _bad person_ , disguised by a thin layer of fake repentance.

Morty hates and admires that look and notices the light that shines with a wicked, selfish plan before:

"Oh my god, Rick, you're going to kill us! Look where you're driving!" Rick swerves, eyes still glued to Morty. Morty's high in his chair, legs braced underneath his body as he tugs at his seatbelt, picking at the fraying material wrapped over his chest. There's no reason to focus his attention on anything but the path Rick is driving them down, but tears flood his eyes as they barely miss another astroid cluster. "Rick, please!"

Morty doesn't know where this came from, doesn't know how he didn't see it, doesn't know how he let Rick drive, but he has a feeling that it's all his fault.

He reaches over, pulling desperately at the steering wheel, and Rick must finally see something worth moving for, because he wrenches it back almost viciously. "Tell me, Morty! T-tell me the truth, Morty!"

No! The truth could mean anything here, and Morty's not ready - he's not ready to die either, but Rick's two seconds away from passing out or killing them both. Saying the wrong thing isn't an option, and saying the right thing is the wrong thing. There's no truth, no right, no wrong, no nothing while Rick's in control. So he says the only thing he can, "I - I lo-ove y-you, Rick." the tears stream down his face as he wills something into existence. Truth or not, it's what Rick loves to hear. "I'm perfect, w-we're perfect,  _please."_

Rick loves being loved, and hates loving, and Morty hopes it's enough. Rick can usually read his face, tell when he's being manipulative, or ly- stretching the truth, but when Rick wants this from him, he's always too drunk to care.

Why is this always his fault? Why can't Rick find someone else, someone that matters more and wants to matter in the same way Rick wants?

Rick stops, foot slamming hard on the brakes as he stares into Morty's face, looking for something that Morty doesn't think is there to see. He muffles a yelp as Rick throws himself at him, time slowing until all he can feel is Rick's weight, and all he can see are the stars behind Rick's shoulder. He thinks there's something else, a part of him that's yelling for him to  _sNAP OUT OF IT_ but he's drifting off.

Rick's muttering, drunken apologies staining his skin as his fingers hold too tightly onto Morty's waist. This all seems too sudden but, well...

That's Rick, right?

Morty's caught, lost in space, losing his mind while his body is lost to  _Rick._ It's a bad day, and he knows he needs to take his medicine, something that will chase away the feelings of not existing, but now he's okay. It's okay, and he'll try to remember that later when he's fighting the migraines and nauseau, the uncertainty of what happened plaguing him until he's chased back into Rick's garage for another sleepless night. He's fighting for control, for a handle on the situation, but there's no point.

There's never a point with Rick.

He lets go.

 

* * *

 

 

They're still in space when Morty comes back to reality, pain and fear slamming into him like a bus would a tall blonde bully. Rick's awake too, staring at him with a needle hanging out of his arm.

Something breaks in Morty, and he bites back the shaking of his voice as he asks, "Why?"

Rick pulls the needle out of his arm, throwing it onto the backseat where it'll poke someone later on. He's still drunk and high, and Morty doesn't think he wants to know what exactly was in that needle. Rick opens his mouth and closes it again, and Morty tries to be patient, waiting for an answer Rick could decide to never give.

"Don't - don't think about it, Morty." Rick's voice is cold and flat, and Morty tries so, so hard to accept that. "I - I'm a  _Rick,_ Morty."

Morty knows. There's an answer hidden there, between the lies and drunken slur.

_"You're just a Morty, Morty."_

 

 

 


	2. rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think!
> 
> click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!

Rick is more than excited - he's almost bouncing off the walls, the feeling of a plan come to fruition, an expectation met in full, thrumming in his blood. He's been waiting for another one of these parties to roll around for almost ten  _years._ Rick can barely wait for episodes to update regularly-

He's reminded of the time he got really wasted and got an episode of Ball Fondlers released early at gunpoint. Yikes.

-But this party is worth every minute. It always is, after all; this event, no matter how long the wait between each one, is spectacular. The drugs, the partners, the drinks... And the mind-blowing moon-flowers they harvest the night before. Normally he wouldn't bother with the theatrics, and just steal the flowers with Morty, but he has always loved orgies and this is one good excuse to go to one.

So, he packed in case he had to stay overnight. No clothes (he could just wear the same thing later - it's not like he'd be dressed the whole time), no toiletries (there would be way better stuff there than he would be able to pack), so that left only a few things. A few needles, a few bottles, a lot of sparkly powders, quite a few vials of his own special concoctions. He make Morty fetch them for him - he hides them while drunk, and Morty is probably the only person in the house who knows where he puts everything. 

The boy is curious, he knows well from the dumb look on his face. Wide eyes, a slight crease in his forehead, a strained mouth like he's holding back questions. 

It's an old, regular, Rick and Morty adventure, and he can't wait to get his hands on a psychedelic flower, that only grows in certain conditions, once every ten years. It's rare, rarer than anything he usually wants to get and that makes him puff up more than anything. He's not one for waiting, but when he does... The end result is a sight to behold.

He tells Morty to get some shit for himself to amuse himself for a while. He needs Morty for this; the last time he went to one of these parties, he got his flowers and lost a few fingers for his trouble, courtesy of the Federation Expansion. Morty is stupidly righteous. He's also stupidly emotional and clingy about sexual things, or not too interested at all. Rick doesn't want to ask what mood he's in - but he is tempted to test it in the physical sense - so he's jut preparing for anything.

He thinks there's another reason he wants Morty along.

Morty, coated in the silvery liquid that keeps them all awake through the night, Morty with pupils blown wide, a flush to his sweaty face. Morty, his skinny body draped along the length of the long couches. Morty, Morty,  _Morty._

Even when planning a night of sexual escapades with delegates, royalty, and beauties that are unseen by the eyes of the cosmos, he can't force Morty out of his mind.

He might not have minded, if Morty's eyes weren't so glassy. He's not blinking, eyes locked on the ship where Rick had thrown his bag, and Rick feels like he hould do something. He's been self-medicating for so long, he's been a genius for so long that he doesn't often understand those feelings, that stew in Morty's brain. He doesn't feel what he should, when he should, and that might be the only thing he genuinely has in commmon with Morty.

_Might._

He calls Morty's name once, twice, before huffing an impatient breath. He wants to go nowwww. Instead of waiting even longer for Morty to get out of his stupid daze - seriously, it's lasting longer than any of his many drug trips (but he is very tolerant of most drugs anyway) - he decides to just pull him into the ship and let him fall over if he can't buckle himself in on time.

Looking at Morty's face, he thinks that might not be very true.

Then again, Morty looks like he's plotting, and if Morty's thinking about something enough to plan for a scenario, Rick won't like it. He tries to convey that in his death-stare, bu Morty is really, really deep in thought. Rick almost thinks he might be planning a murder - he can get the same dumb look on his face, even while thinking up the most heinous ways to kill someone that's really annoying him - but Morty hasn't actively tried to kill anyone yet.

_Yet._

The word strikes him in the face, and his brow furrows even more, well aware that he's not drunk enough to deal with feelings at the moment. Does he want Morty to be a killer? Does he care? Does he want to turn the boy into another one of the endless versions of him? Why does he think so much about the most pointless, pointless things, like he's not better than that?

And, from there, the question that's haunted him from the first time he ever built a spaceship:

Is he better than that?

 

* * *

 

The trip is stretching on way too long. 

It's not that he hate long rides through space - well, he kind of does - but the novelty has worn off and he just doesn't care about the 'wonders of the universe' or whatever bullshit anyone in his position would say. He just couldn't give less fucks, but he can see Morty and just knows he can't give the engine a tap, or hit the accelerator just a little more aggressively. 

He feels almost proud. 

He's the reason Morty is so wide-eyed, mouth open in awe, as though he's never seen space before in his life. And he wouldn't have, not in a million years, if not for Rick.  _This_ is what he never wants to lose,  _this_ is half the reason Rick drags his stupid ass around. He's Morty's god, and the multiverse is his oyster - their relationship is symbiotic. Morty gets to explore the wonders of the many universes, and Rick gets to bask in the the wonder he brings Morty. 

He can almost imagine what any mental health professional would say -  _"Is gaining satisfaction and a sense of worth from a teenager really healthy and productive?"_

No. But that's all the more reason for Rick to avoid them and their uninformed idealogies (and, he's tempted to say that out loud just so Morty can crinkle his forehead and pretend to know what those words even mean), but there's so much to watch just in the ship.

Fuck the nebulae, the stars, the merciless vacuumn in which they are confined. All he needs - all he wants - all he'll use, is Morty.

Fuck the universe.

And, for all his star-eyed, open mouth eagerness and the reasons Rick's irrational urges are too far out of his control:

_Fuck Morty._

 

* * *

 

He drinks on the way there, more than he probably would if he were alone. That's okay, though; the adrenaline that flows through his veins and grounds him, producing a better high than anything he can replicate.

Except for those damn flowers.

It's important that he has them, and that's why he rushes - because the high is incredible and coming down doesn't hurt. They're great to live on, and even more amazing to fuck on...

But Morty still has that distant stare, so he talks. Morty should always know where they're going, and why. Better for them both to have an idea of what Rick wants, so there's no room for whining later, or miscommunication. Say what you will about Rick - he doesn't care and he's heard everything before - but he's a damn good rebel. He's a good soldier when he's the one making the rules and plan, and he can do things that no human and most aliens can't.

He's not one for staying on task, but for a mission, an adventure? He'd sell his own soul if it got him what he wanted.

"I wouldn't - wouldn't have brought you, Morty, but these, uh,  _events,_ always tend to be held in Federation Space, so they're actually pretty dangerous. But only recently, you know? Like with their creepy-ass expansion, and all that fucked up shit. Half the people here hate them anyway, and if they don't I can - I can just fuck 'em til' they agree with me."

Morty's either listening really well or not at all. Rick's always been a bit on the narcissistic side, so he lets the conversation take a more Rick-related turn.

"B-but you know grandpa, Morty, nothin' will stop me from getting these dope-ass drugs, Morty!" He says. "If anything goes sideways, we can just set the whole place on fire and bang the corpses. Wait, was that joke too dark? I don't care, b-but the ratings! The ratings will drop, Morty, they'll fucking plummet like a suicide jumper - holy shit I can't stop-"

Morty stares on, at the occasional flowers dotting their path, and Rick takes a firmer grip on Morty's arm. He's manic, now - the fire flooding through his body, his finger twitching and flexing with the need to reach out and do something, something worthwhile. He likes getting like this - it's worlds away from being too morose to do anything more than hold a gun to his head, but it's annoying, too.

"Basic- basically, where we parked is a place for special people, like us, who the Feds can't stand, Morty. If we pay the right amount, the field will cover us allll night."

Rick hate having to explain himself, and hates having to slow down for idiots who can't sit back and enjoy the ride without blabbering.

_"Blah, blah, blah, Rick, I'm so stupid, blah, blah blah-"_

Morty's slowing down even as Rick picks up the pace, and the  _blah blah blah_ of life is blasting in his head, dull and monotone, and the opposite of what's happening on his world, on _this_ world with it's too bright flowers and stupid sun. 

He underestimated the need to slow things down for Morty, apparently, because only a few moments later does he hear the boy, meek even with curiouity bubbling in his bones: "Why wouldn't we just park at the thing, Rick?"

Holy shit. Holy shit. Why did Morty never listen to him? Why couldn't Morty shut up, for once, and just figure shit out? Why did Rick have to be the smart one, that people turned to and asked for explanations that he'd already given? He should be able to calm down. He should be able to make a long, snarky quip about Morty's intelligence that would fly right over his head.

He should, but that doesn't stop him from grabbing Morty's arm even tighter, and whirling them into a dead stop right then and there. "Haven't you - I already told you,  _Morty,_ " Rick needs to stop, he needs to take a time-out and drain his flask until he's calm and buzzed, instead of this chaotic mess of a man, "we're in Federation Space, you - you're an idiot, Morty. You need to learn to  _listen_ , Morty."

But he'd already seen that Morty hadn't been listening - for all Rick can be a bad parent, he knows not to expect much from a kid that was spaced out. Holding him tight wouldn't remind him for next time because Morty has a shitty mind that loses, and forgets things, and  _sometimes_ Rick gets reall drunks and fucks up with Morty's mindblowers, and the memory gun.

He snaps back into himself in time to see Morty cringing, bending backwarda, eyes clenched shut. It's a pathetic sight, truly, and something primal and protective in Rick is set alight. He scoffs, mostly at himself, and relaxes his grip. They're almost there.

His hold on Morty isn't as punishing, isn't as forceful, and Morty uses his free hand to touch Rick's, small, clammy palm laying flat against Rick's calloused knuckles.  Rick stares at it, for a second, and then at Morty. The kid's looking at him expectantly, and Rick looks away. He doesn't owe Morty anything - he doesn't owe anyone anything, and that's his whole thing. That's what he does. 

He takes, and takes, and doesn't need to give back because his presence is gift enough. His mind is gift enough.

He watches, from the corner of his eye, as Morty's head falls down again, his eyes glazing over in a way that makes him look uniquely dead. A soft frown is frozen on his face like there's no reason for it being there, like it doesn't belong except to help create the masterpiece of Morty's decay. 

_He doesn't owe Morty anything._

He knows that. 

So why does he feel like he does?

 

* * *

 

They arrive at Vlorxx's house early. Much earlier than Rick had planned. He spares a second to wonder why he's ahead of schedule, when he normally pace these things so well for a reason, but he looks at Morty. Morty's face is red, his brow glistening in sweat. He's looking around like he can't believe they've stopped walking, and Rick feels a pang of regret for not remembering that Morty has shorter legs than him. His strides aren't as big as Rick's, and he can feel a lot more than Rick at the moment.

Rick is -  _so fucking drunk -_ kind of tipsy, and he can feel the alcohol all over. It's numbing his fingertips, chasing away any aches or pains he would have been feeling otherwise. He shakes his leg subtly. Nope, he can't feel anything. The kind of drunk he is - where he can't feel pain - is one of his most reckless. It's the drunk he is when he gets in a bar-fight, and goes home only to discover he's been shanked and is bleeding out.

It's not his best look, and it makes him stupid. Dizzy with confidence.

Morty's looking up at him, looking so unbearably human and fragile, chewing his lips and narrowing his eyes. He looks tired. Rick feels alive. He supposes that's the difference between them; where Rick gets off on life, on the thrills and pains, the ups and downs, and never lets anything sway him, Morty is the opposite. Morty moves with life, rather than an opposing force. 

Rick looks toward Vlorxx's house, just as tall and grand as he had remembered it. 

Morty doesn't - wouldn't - want that. 

Morty's stupid. Morty wants everything and nothing, and can't settle when his emotions get involved. The dumb chemicals in his brain -  _his heart, you idiot -_ get in the way, making him think there's something special to them, when it's actually being repeated in a thousand alternate universes, by the alternate versions of themselves. They're not special, this isn't special, and Rick is smart enough to know that. And he doesn't want to see Morty's reaction as he finds out. 

So...

"Y-you're - you can stay out here, Morty," Rick says, backing away like that will distance him from the situation. "Just take your shit out of - take your shit and give me my bag."

"What?" Morty looks hurt. He looks shocked, and confused, and Rick doesn't want to see any of it. He doen't want to deal with any of it. He brought Morty for some fun, and it's not his fault that Morty is a little cry-baby. Morty should know better, and Rick should bring him in to teach him, but he can't. Fucking Morties, making him weak, and soft, and everything a Rick should never, ever be.

"Look, Morty, y-you're a k-"  _kid,_ he almost says, "a teenager, and you probably have a lot of weird, hormonal, chemical reactions that your grandpa doesn't. And, because I  _respect_ that, I'm going to have you sit out here until I'm done." He shouldn't have pulled out the respect card. It sounded weird and fake, and had obviously made Morty's hackles raise.

Morty opens his mouth, his eyes slits that still manage to perfectly convey his frustration, when Vlorxx opens the door with a loud bang. Xe's stunning, of course; xe always is, with shimmery purple skin, and barely enough fabric to call what xe's wearing clothes. Though, next to Morty and his rapidly paling face, xe barely compares. Of course, the sex is great, and the flowers are the best thing since alcohol, but he's hesitant for some reason.

"Oh," Morty says.

They both look at him; he doesn't say anything more, and it looks like he's struggling to say what he needs to say. Rick can understand that. He doesn't say things very concisely, he delights in that fact actually. The fact that he can run rings around people with little more than his tongue, confuse them until they give in, have power over people who just aren't fast enough or smart enough to understand him... It's intoxicating.

Morty closes his mouth, and Rick raises his brow in a silent question. Vlorxx laughs, probably eager to get back inside with the rest of xer friends. Morty doesn't say anything more, and it feels like Rick's breaking something - a boundary, a heart, he doesn't know, but Vlorxx is right there, and the party is right inside. A few more drinks, and he won't feel a thing, inside matching the outside.

Morty smiles. It's not real, it's not convincing, but it's all Rick needs to slam the door shut behind him, leaving Morty alone.

 

* * *

 

The party is  _raging,_ and Rick's too easily captured by the beat of the music, the drinks being passed around.

He's having a good time, he'll admit it (he's trying to forget that Morty exists - out of sight, out of mind?). He doesn't want any reminders of what's waiting for him outside - the guilt (or worse, the  _want_ ) will burn him alive from the inside out.

He's leaning back on the couch (he's already had _around_ four rounds. He doesn't really know for sure), waiting for someone worth his time to approach him, and he's sure he won't be disappointed. As usual, the best of the universe are in attendance. There's a Klorsian present, her body reflecting fractals of light as she dances, a living gem stone, or crystal. There's a Glorpiten, his body winding like a snake, long-limbed and blood glowing through his thin skin. There's a-

His thoughts are interrupted by Vlorxx, and he smirks up at her, smug and mostly sated. 

"Rick, you haven't met my prize before." Vlorxx purrs, draping xer body along that of a short, humanoid alien girl - the only large, telling difference between her and a human being the shine sheen of glitter that winds up and down her pale skin, trailing off into different colours. Rick feels the urge to explore them all, see if there are more under her lacy underwear. "She's  _Flovtarni."_

Rick raises his brow, impressed despite himself. The Flovtarni race had supposedly been hunted into extinction ages ago - for their looks, and the rare minerals in their teeth. His first thoughts, of course, are for science, but Vlorxx gives him a warning glare. He doesn't have much respect for anybody, but he knows what a fearome warrior xe is, and doesn't wnat to provoke her ire. He would win, undoubtedly, but it would be a waste of time.

He looks the Flovtarni girl up and down, her rarity shining through like it's a feature of her body that could be found attractuve. She doesn't have much of a chest, Rick notes, but that doesn't really bother him. He spreads his legs in invitation, and the girl is quick to scurry between them, throwing her legs either side of him so she's straddling his thighs.

Vlorxx looks on, pleased, and goes to fetch more flowers (which, fuck yeah, are better than he remembered them being).

"What's your name?" Rick says, fisting her short, curly hair - ignoring the fact that it was worth millions of flurbos on the black market - and mouthing at her neck. She squeaks, the sound being familiar and apparently a massive turn-on.

"Mordimehh," she whispers, "but I have lots of nicknames."

Rick's a motormouth - and he usually adores the sound of his own voice - so he takes the bait, hands creeping up her back. "Tell me some, baby."

She giggles, like she's never had a more amusing partner. He preens; he likes to pride himself on being a somewhat unique lover, and he likes impressing, young, pretty people. After a few seconds more of harsh panting, she gives him an answer. "Mehh, Di', Dim." She takes a pause during her list to let out a throaty gasp as he bites at her neck. Then, like it's intentional, she grinds down and whispers; "Mordi."

He freezes, hands on her ass, and head buried in the crook of her neck. He stands, uncoordinated, and falls. Fuck, he's wasted. He's so fucking wasted. The Flovtarni -  _Mordi,_ apparently - yelps, having been forced onto the floor by his movement. Her eyes are narrowed, and she looks offended - but Rick doesn't care. He doesn't care, not at all. Not one tiny bit. He checks his watch, and he's been gone for so long. So, so long.

What if Mord- Morty's been taken? What if this has all been a ruse, a clever little trick by the Federation, another simulation. He had thought the Flovtarni fuckers had died out, and they probably had. This - this is fake, he can smell it in the air now.

Vlorxx stops him as he makes a mad scramble for the door, concern etched into xer forehead and around xer eyes. "Rick," xe says, "what's wrong, _kip_ _tashi?"_

Everything! Every worry he's been suppressing, every shred of paranoia has been brought to the surface, every doubt he's ever had in his life has been brought up before his very eyes. He looks back, eyes scanning the crowd for Mordi - she's found a new partner, and her hair is short and curly, and a pretty chocolate brown - and all that dances in his vision is Morty, Morty,  _Morty._

There are darker thoughts too, the kind that will make him throw up when he finally sobers up (if he ever lets himself). All of them revolve around Morty, because everything fucking does and he  _hates_ the kid for it.

He doesn't bother with an answer. His mind is made up. 

And, with a final drink snagged from another alien, he's bolting out the door.

 

* * *

 

Morty's been crying.

Rick knows he has. He's seen Morty in every state, experiencing every emotion. Caused a lot of them himself, and he knows by the way Morty's holding his wrists protectively to his heart that he's upset. It's been a while since he's visited Morty for a reason other than his brainwaves - a week, maybe? - but Rick's a genius. His memories are etched into the essence of his being (or carefully videoed and stored in his electronic eye for later consumption). 

But he's asleep. He's there, he's asleep, he's not too bad off. He's certainly been worse, by Rick's own hand no less. He brings a shaking arm up to caress Morty's face, and feels the need to  _hurt_ him bubble deep in his gut. Morty's so stupid, falling asleep on a random planet, and it would almost serve him right to have every bone in his hand crushed to fine powder - Rick presenting him with an easy solution soon after, of course.

There's a whisper on the air.  _"You'll regret it,"_ it says, and Rick thinks that it might be right. His hand spasms, and he brings it back, far away from Morty. He should wake him up.

He should make Morty walk, and berate him for being alone, and for falling asleep, and for crying. He should, but he finds himself pulling Morty into his arms and spinning on his heel. He hates himself. He can recognise that, now, walking unsteadily along rough terrain. He's become weak, stupid, senseless with how his emotions make him feel. The self-loathing rises like bile in his throat, and he seriously considers dumping Morty like yesterday's garbage.

It would be so easy to get a new one. And he would know better, know what to avoid so he didn't end up in the same situation. This situation.

Morty shifts closer into his chest as a cold breeze bites at his exposed flesh, and the thought flies to tangle with the wind. He's too selfish. He lets out a ragged breath, pressing his face to Morty's hair so he can smell his shampoo.

Too fucking selfish.

He's already settled the boy into his seat when he finally stirs. He rubs at his face, eyes cloudy and a look on his face that screams wary. As he should be. Rick's finished a whole bottle since they - he - left the party, and he's feeling even more careless. A ' _might crash the ship, might be responsible, I don't know'_ kind of careless. "Hey, M-morty," Rick say, feeling lighter than air. "H-how are you doing, little buddy?" 

Morty rubs at his face again, over his cheeks, under his eyes, like he thought Rick was an idiot.

"Aw geez," Morty says, not looking Rick in the face, "I'm just - I'm just tired, Rick. I haven't been sleeping great, recently - y-you know that." And, okay, it's not an entirely bad reason. Even though Rick hasn't been visiting Morty very much recently (and he'll hopefully recitify that soon because Morty's the only one that calms the fire that takes his veins over at night), he can hear the nightmares.

All that planning, all that staying away from Morty so he could focus on collecting the flowers in his pockets - andhe doesn't even have a petal to show for it. Rick's mood changes like the tide, and while there's fury in his mind, apathy is in his bones, weighing him down and keeping him cold. He doesn't care if they live or die, and he's angry enough to make that choice for the both of them.

A winning combination.

He pulls out his flask, recently topped up, and drinks in lieu of thinking. All that does is make whatever pooling inside him overflow, and his mind is made up: Morty needs to be punished. He'll find a reason for it later, he makes a note to, but now he just needs to act, and remind Morty not to do it again. He wants an answer. A real one. Morty didn't lie to him, he doesn't think, but it's excuse enough.

He swerves, a sharp turn that sends them hurtling towards a nearby asteroid. "Oh my god, Rick, you're going to kill us! Look where you're driving!" He is looking, isn't he? He realises that he's not; instead, he's staring somewhere off to the side. Oh. Rick focuses on Morty, how he braces himself for impact, how he turns his face away like it'll make him disappear.

What a joke. 

Rick pulls away, frenzied when Morty tries to pull the steering wheel away from him - for someone so against dying, Morty seemed deadset on trying for an early grave. Why couldn't he just trust Rick for once? "Tell me, Morty! T-tell me the truth, Morty!"

He doesn't even care at this point; he can read Morty like a book. A voice in him yells for him to stop, but he doesn't care. He can ignore it, he can ignore anything and everything now, and he doesn't want to stop. He doesn't have to listen to anyone.

Morty's staring at him, face screwed up in panic. He's deciding what to say, it's obvious that he wants to say something that'll make Rick stop. Make him brake, make him turn and pay attention to his stupid, worthless little face. Morty doesn't know him. Morty doesn't know what he'll want to hear, Morty is an idiot who can't see things right in front of him, let alone draw conclusions from context (or even lack thereof).

Rick doesn't want to be surprised, but Morty seems to defy Rick's expectations at every turn. "I - I lo-ove y-you, Rick." He's crying, Rick notices, he's borderline sobbing with tears rolling over the baby fat in his cheeks. "I'm perfect, w-we're perfect,  _please."_

The desperation in his voice is too much. It's too much, but Rick wants more. Even though he promised himself he wouldn't stop until the last minute, he slams down on the brakes and (after a brief sweep of his face) _launches_ himself at Morty, like he's an animal. He's scrabbling at Morty's clothes, his skin, his hair, and he's clawing and biting like if he doesn't leave a mark, Morty will vanish. 

Next time, he won't leave Morty alone for so long, he thinks, digging his fingernails into the soft flesh of Morty's waist. He'll have more control next time. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, pressing sloppy kisses lower, and lower, and  _lower._

He doesn't look Morty in the eyes. Even drunk, he's afraid there won't be anything there for him to see.

 

* * *

 

Rick shoots up on some Pleplep Crystals after he's finished. Morty's still and silent; almost corpse-like. Rick stays away from him. 

Rule number one: sometimes Morty needs space. 

Morty needs space a lot, especially if he feels scared or unsafe. Otherwise he might lash out, and do something they'll both end up regretting. In bed, Rick likes to curl up around him, or pass out, but anywhere else is a no-go for Morty. Unfamiliar space? Pain? Fear? That all leads to a Morty that kicks, and screams, and begs. Rick doesn't like to deal with it.

And, if he's being honest, he's not really sure how to. Holding him doesn't work. Giving him a bath doesn't help (the one time Morty woke up in a bath, he nearly drowned himself. Rick does not want a repeat of that). Wrapping him in blankets doesn't do anything. 

It's best to just let him sort himself out.

It's not that Morty's asleep, but he's disassociating like there's no tomorrow and if Rick forces him out of it, there's a good chance he'll accidentally kill himself in a panic. Maybe. God he's so fucking drunk, he can't even think. He pulls the needle out of his arm when Morty blinks back into conciousness. He looks like he's on the verge of tears, when he asks the one question Rick hates hearing.

"Why?"

Rick hates having to explain himself.

"Don't - don't think about it, Morty." Rick's tired. Morty's successfully burned the fire out, and all that's left is ashes. "I - I'm a  _Rick,_ Morty."

He's just an idiot of a Rick. Morty can't expect much more from him.

They drive home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys are awesome, and i really want to know what you guys think, so remember to leave a kudos or comment if you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a kudos or comment if you enjoyed it, it makes me happy to know that i'm not making this for an unaffected audience :))
> 
> for those sticking around: we see a lot of changes! while Rick's sudden 'unfaithfulness', as it might be considered, is abrupt, i view it as somewhen in the middle, soon after "i'm learning". before Morty was allowed to remember, he never cared about who Rick slept with and it didn't really affect him. but, as their relationship takes a new path, Rick rocks the boat; partly to prove he's not attached to anyone, and partly because doing things for his own satisfaction is all he knows.
> 
> i'm thinking of maybe doing a second chapter - the same scenario, but from Rick's p.o.v. Obviously, Morty is not in a good place of mind, so Rick's reasoning is even more hidden than normal - let me know what you think!
> 
> what's your favourite part?


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